


Adorable And Sweet

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Cute Animals, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Past Animal Cruelty, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: John and Sherlock are investigating a case and find more than evidence in a probable victim's house.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 13 is: Picture Prompt (shown below) Use however you want to, but feel free to break up your angsting with a bit of fluff.  For those of you differentiating between new and old prompts, this is an old prompt." -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts





	Adorable And Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning to do any of the old prompts, actually. My plan was to insert old 2016 prompts I didn't get to in place of the 'old prompts' offered this time (2017), but this one was insidious and the Muse popped up with a fic almost immediately. Ah, well, teach me to have a plan, eh? Hope some of you enjoy the fluff.

This is the prompt pic:  
  


* * *

John glanced around the night-dark neighbourhood as Sherlock crouched down before him, making only the slightest of noises as he worked quickly with his lock picks. The house was tiny, separated from the house next to it by barely more than a yard’s worth of paved walkway and flowerbed, at best, but then the whole street was like that: tiny houses close together but _technically_ detached, so the developers could charge more for the ‘space and privacy’. It was ridiculous, in John’s opinion, anyway. Just spend the same money for a flat somewhere and get half again the space—if you want privacy, keep your blinds closed.

A telltale set of distinctive clicks and a soft breath of satisfaction from Sherlock told John the door’s lock had been conquered. In another couple of seconds they were inside and the door closed behind them again.

“You sure no one’s going to be here?” John whispered, flicking on his LED torch to shine a bright blue-white beam around a fairly ordinary living room.

“I’m over ninety percent certain George Burlington’s probably already dead right now, John,” replied Sherlock, not in a whisper, but not a full voice, either. “He’s not been at work for two days, regardless.”

“Wouldn’t that make this a crime scene?” he asked, not wanting another lecture from Greg, and most certainly not wanting Sherlock banned from helping with cases—lord knows what sort of chaos would result from _that_.

“Not unless he was killed here.” Sherlock started poking around in general, having produced his own torch to shine around the room. “I warned Lestrade, but he insists on waiting for the next body to be found…” Trailing off, Sherlock crouched to look at something on the floor.

“He doesn’t want there to be more people killed,” John argued, knowing that’s not really what Sherlock meant, but also understanding Greg Lestrade’s point of view. “If there’s no proof he can show later as the reason he went after a particular person or… never mind. I know you know perfectly well why he needs a paper trail or tangible evidence of some kind.”

Sherlock grunted, neither an agreement nor a disagreement, but at least an acknowledgement of some kind, which was more than John got on many occasions. After bending and stretching at various points around the room, Sherlock gestured at John with the hand not holding the torch. “You check the kitchen and pantry. Look for a bulletin board or note pad of some kind, maybe an old-fashioned answering machine.” He started toward the hall leading to what was likely to be a bedroom. “Also, let me know if you find any pet foods or accessories. I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom.”

“Okay,” John murmured, heading back to the kitchen—which turned out to be as tiny as the rest of the house—without questioning why Sherlock wanted him to look for those particular things. It would most likely make some sense after the fact; such mysteries had led to John developing his skills at figuring out the weird things Sherlock asked him to do once all the evidence and facts were in. Though, he did recall the first two victims had recently bought new pets.

Finding a dry-erase board with a four or five inch edge of cork that was covered with bits of paper tacked to it by pushpins with clear plastic heads, John took a couple of pictures of all the notes with his mobile phone. Other than fairly ordinary human food—though a surprising amount of tinned chicken and multi-packs of pot noodle—John found some puppy food and a plastic bag full of new squeaky toys, some furry and others rubber, or whatever they were made of these days.

Once he’d checked all the cupboards, John went to find Sherlock, calling his name softly in the short hallway. He heard Sherlock say something, but didn’t actually catch the words, and when he entered the bedroom, it was to find the detective standing in the opening of a closet with two louvered doors. He wasn’t moving, though his torch was shining straight down in front of him at _something_.

“Everything all right, Sherlock?” John asked softly from the doorway, but moved toward Sherlock when he didn’t get an answer, prompting, “What did you find?”

Sherlock gave what seemed a full-body jolt and reached out a hand belatedly, as if he would keep John back, but all he did was land a hand on the far right of John’s chest as John reached his side to look down at the floor of the closet. “John, wait,” he said urgently.

A plastic laundry basket lined with a big white towel lay just before Sherlock’s feet, directly in the beam of his torch, and John made a soft, surprised sound in the back of his throat. In the basket was two very small, very young, puppies; one a brindle pattern of brown, black, and white, while the other was mostly white with dark swatches covering its eyes and sweeping back to encompass its ears. Both were cuddled together snugly, clearly having been asleep, though the brindle puppy had its dark eyes open and was looking up at them with such a solemn-seeming expression. “Well, fuck,” John murmured, almost literally feeling his heartstrings being yanked by the blatant adorableness of the tiny creatures. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to see them or if Sherlock somehow thought… what? He started to crouch down, but Sherlock’s hand was still on his chest, and pressing him back. Turning to Sherlock, he asked in confusion, “Sherlock? What do you think I’m going to do, eat them?”

“No!” Sherlock immediately responded, but then his voice went uncharacteristically hesitant, “It’s just they’re…”

Tilting his head, studying the restrained signs of worry and embarrassment, John gentled his own voice—he didn’t want to imagine what circumstance must have made Sherlock think the worst, somehow—and said, “They’re so small and helpless, I know. You go raid the kitchen for food and toys and I’ll check them out to see if they’re okay. I’m not the right kind of vet for this, but general knowledge is enough at the moment, I think.” He crouched down slowly, Sherlock not holding him back any longer, but looking at him as if he expected John to mock him or something. John had seen that look a very few times before, and was determined to make sure he was never the cause of it, even hoping to help erase it altogether. “I saw puppy food in the cupboard next to the back door, as well as some new toys in a bag.”

Although he hesitated for a long moment, studying John’s face, Sherlock didn’t argue further before glancing down at the puppies once more and stalking off hurriedly to, apparently, do what John had asked. Making a mental note to maybe ask about it later, John concentrated on having a look at the pups. They were obviously a small breed, to begin with, but all the signs of them being quite young were evident, as well as the fact that they were unusually quiet for puppies—John broke off from his own suppositions at that point and went on with seeing what facts he could ascertain, instead of possibly unpleasant conjecture. Once he’d disturbed them from their little cuddle-pile, the puppies made the usual little grunt-whines that indicated they were probably hungry and wanted to be put back where it was warm and comfy.

Sherlock was back fairly quickly, with a heavy plastic grocery bag full of the puppy food and toys, as well as a few other lumps John couldn’t immediately identify; he also held a pet carrier made of sturdy cardboard, like an origami version of the more permanent metal and plastic sort. He crouched down in a rush, his shoulder knocking against John’s as he did so, and saw the predominantly white puppy still in John’s hands. “Well?”

Unable to quite hide a fond smile, John nestled the pup against his chest before reaching down into the basket to scoop up her—probable—sibling. “They seem to be in fairly good health, though a little dehydrated, I think, and maybe behind on a few meals. Both are female. I’d like a proper vet to have a look, but if they are weaned, it hasn’t been for long.” He immediately extended the darker puppy to Sherlock, who made a quiet sound of either surprise or reluctance before accepting the little fuzzy creature—he could hold it entirely in his one, large hand, and John felt another strong tug at those heartstrings. Its soft noises quieted once it was cradled in those long fingers. “Otherwise,” he continued as the little one nuzzled at Sherlock’s pinky hopefully, “my professional opinion is that they are adorable…” he held the second puppy out to Sherlock, who hurriedly cupped the first one against his own chest so he could hold out his other hand, “and sweet.”

Sherlock held both puppies to him and his face softened, showing a decided warmth that continued into, yes, positively gooey. John was glad his vocal range didn’t extend to ‘squeeing’, because it was a great effort not to make some kind of embarrassing sound—both at the expression on Sherlock’s face and the sight of him cuddling two puppies so gently. Even so, his eyes stung the tiniest bit and he couldn’t have held back the warm, affectionate grin that took over his face if his life had depended on it. Sherlock looked up at him, mouth open to speak, and stopped, apparently caught by John’s own expression as much as John had been by Sherlock’s.

“I… a fr—an acquaintance and I once found a litter of puppies near where their mother had been hit by a car,” Sherlock said, as if the words were being pulled out of him, low and reluctant. “He and I planned to go back to collect them later with a box to carry them and… well, when I went back… they were gone.” He lowered his head, practically burying his face in the downy fur of the two puppies he held. “When I asked him about the puppies, he said his brother and he had put them in a sack and thrown them in the river… just… just to see what would happen.” His voice got even quieter, and rougher, with remembered pain and outrage.

“Fucking arseholes,” John growled automatically. He’d known sick little bastards like that as a kid, himself. The world had plenty of them as adults, too; all grown up and still utter arseholes.

“I wasn’t entirely sure he was telling the truth, but…” Sherlock shook his head a little, shrugging. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with him afterwards, all the same. There’ve been a few similar… incidences… since then, but that was the first like it.” He glanced up at John briefly. “I don’t know why I remembered it, really.”

“I’m sorry you had to experience that, Sherlock.” John reached over to run his fingers over the puppies’ fuzzy little heads. “Don’t worry, we’ll find good homes for these two. Anyone coming here to investigate Burlington’s disappearance—or death, as may be—would only call animal control.”

“That’s exactly what they’d do,” agreed Sherlock.

Despite the carrier’s existence, Sherlock ended up tucking the puppies into one of the enormous pockets of his Belstaff. The photos John had taken of the notes in the kitchen held the evidence Sherlock had been looking for; namely, a note about a meeting with the killer, scheduled for two days ago, and the added notation, _‘pet shop guy’_. It would be enough for Greg to connect the two, as Sherlock already had done, and maintain his evidence trail to show at trial later, should it come up. Job done, John and Sherlock left George Burlington’s house with the two pilfered puppies.

Within a week, the serial killer who’d, indeed, murdered George Burlington, had been apprehended. Burlington was the last victim the killer, a cashier at a pet shop, would randomly choose to lure to their deaths, thanks to the connections made from other evidence found in Burlington’s house. During that time, John and Sherlock found homes for the puppies, which Sherlock had named Dora and Sweetpea—cheerfully playing off John’s jokey words when he’d been trying to reassure Sherlock.

Mike Stamford’s kids were just about old enough to properly care for a puppy, and he was an enthusiastic dog-lover, so Dora the brindle puppy became one of the Stamford family.

Mrs. Turner’s ‘married ones’ had been considering adopting a pet and, when they saw Sweetpea, both made noises fairly close to the ones John had been resisting. So Sweetpea, the white puppy with dark patches, got a loving home, too.

The only problem John had with any of it was that Sherlock had volunteered himself and John to puppy-sit when/if they were available. So they were officially puppy godfathers or puppy uncles, or whatever you might want to call it. Even though John initially considered arguing the point, when he looked at Sherlock’s face as he rolled about on the sitting room floor playing, or when Sherlock let himself be a living puppy bed on the sofa, well… John really, really didn’t have the heart to complain about a thing.


End file.
